The Flower Giver

Once passing on the road I met

an alchemist, a grim young-gent

and to some he gave an epithet

and roses to those he did resent.

"Flower Giver, have you a rose?"

I asked unwiser than he though.

"A hundrerd roses, I suppose,"

said he and said half-shadowed.

"Come out from the willow weeping,

show this traveler your worthy hoard."

And out he glided though as sweeping

unmasking swifttly that blossomed sword.

For the flora donned between his hands

stinging nettle, wolfsbane,tread-softly and

bleeding roses from many a lonely lands,

a viper wood of vengeful dose too planned.

"You may choose what you will, stranger fair,

but of the sworded poseys, nay not there,

for I have saved them for a sojourn where

my heart was ensnared by a maiden there.

Her smile is a candle's tongue

her hair a raven ravaged bough

her hands a mandolin unstrung

her heart one pillaging plough. 

And taking I one discarded rose

wandered down the scarlet road

seeming spellbound in burried arrows

and the Flower Giver's lonely harrowed.